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Wuthering Heights — Chapter 31 | Full Audiobook · Chapter by Chapter — The Lost Library

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  Chapter 31 Yesterday was bright, calm and frosty as planned.
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  I went to the Heights. My housekeeper asked me to
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  deliver a note to her young lady and I agreed as she seemed
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  unaware of any impropriety in her request.
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  The front door was open but the gate was locked just as it was
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  during my last visit. I knocked and called for urn she
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  from the garden. He Unchained the gate and I went
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  in. He's as striking A rustic as you
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  could find. I paid special attention to him
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  this time, though he seems to do his utmost to downplay his good
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  looks. I inquired if Mr. Heathcliff was
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  at home. He replied no, but he'd be back
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  by dinner. It was 11:00, and I declared my
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  intention to wait for him inside.
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  At this, he promptly set down his tools and joined me, acting
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  as a watchdog rather than a host.
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  We entered together. Catherine was there, busy
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  preparing vegetables for the upcoming meal.
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  She seemed more sullen and less lively than when I first met
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  her. She barely glanced up to
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  acknowledge me, continuing her work with the same indifference
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  to social niceties as before, not even returning my bow and
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  greeting with the slightest nod. She doesn't seem as amiable, I
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  thought, as Missus Dean would have me believe.
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  She's beautiful, sure, but not angelic.
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  Earnshaw gruffly told her to move her things to the kitchen.
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  Move them yourself, She retorted, pushing them away as
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  soon as she finished, then retreating to a stool by the
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  window. There she began carving figures
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  of birds and beasts from the turnip peelings in her lap.
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  I approached her, pretending to admire the garden, and as I
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  thought, cleverly dropped Missus Dean's note onto her knee,
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  unnoticed by Hareton. But she asked aloud, What's
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  that? And flicked it away.
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  A letter from your old acquaintance, the housekeeper at
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  the Grange, I replied, irritated by her exposing my kind gesture
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  and worried it might be mistaken for a personal note.
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  She would have eagerly gathered it up upon hearing this, but
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  Hareton was quicker. He grabbed it and tucked it into
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  his waistcoat, insisting that Mister Heathcliff should see it
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  first. At this, Catherine turned her
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  face away from us in silence, discreetly pulling out her
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  handkerchief to dab at her eyes. Her cousin, after wrestling with
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  his own softer emotions, finally yanked the letter out and tossed
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  it onto the floor beside her. As ungraciously as possible,
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  Catherine snatched it up and read it eagerly.
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  Then she asked me a few questions about the people, both
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  sensible and otherwise, from her old home.
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  Gazing towards the hills, she murmured to herself, I wish I
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  were riding Minnie down there. I wish I were climbing up there.
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  Oh, I'm tired, I'm worn out, Hareton.
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  She rested her lovely head against the window sill, half
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  yawning, half sighing, and slipped into a state of distant
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  melancholy, indifferent to whether we noticed her or not.
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  Missus Heathcliff, I said, after a long silence.
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  Are you aware that I am an acquaintance of yours?
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  So familiar, in fact, that I find it odd you won't come and
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  speak to me. My housekeeper never tires of
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  talking about you and singing your praises.
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  She'll be very disappointed if I return with no word from you
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  except that you received her letter and said nothing.
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  She seemed puzzled by my words and asked, Does Ellen like you?
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  Yes, all right, I replied hesitantly.
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  You must tell her, she continued, that I'd respond to
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  her letter. But I have nothing to write
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  with, not even a book to tear a page from.
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  No books? I exclaimed.
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  How do you manage to live here without them, if I may ask?
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  Even with a large library at the Grange, I often find myself
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  quite bored. Take my books away and I'd be
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  utterly lost. I was always reading when I had
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  them, Catherine said. Mr. Heathcliff never reads, so
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  he decided to destroy my books. I haven't seen one in weeks.
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  Once I rummaged through Joseph's collection of theology, much to
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  annoyance, and once, Hareton, I stumbled upon a hidden stash in
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  your room, some Latin and Greek, along with tales and poetry, all
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  old friends. I brought the last here, and you
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  gathered them like a magpie hoarding shiny spoons, just for
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  the thrill of taking them. They're useless to you.
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  Or perhaps you hid them out of spite, thinking that if you
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  can't enjoy them, no one else should.
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  And maybe your envy persuaded Mr. Heathcliff to strip me of
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  the my treasures. But most of them are etched in
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  my mind and engraved on my heart, and you can't take those
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  away from me. Earnshaw flushed a deep red when
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  his cousin exposed his private collection of literary efforts,
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  stammering out an indignant denial of her accusations.
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  Mr. Hatton is eager to expand his knowledge.
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  I interjected, coming to his defense.
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  He's not envious, but rather inspired by your achievements.
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  In a few years he'll be quite the scholar, and in the meantime
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  he wants me to become a fool. Catherine retorted.
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  I hear him trying to spell and read to himself, and the
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  mistakes he makes are quite amusing.
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  I wish you'd repeat Chevy Chase like you did yesterday.
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  It was hilarious. I heard you and I heard you
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  flipping through the dictionary to find the difficult words,
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  then cursing because you couldn't understand their
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  meanings. The young man clearly felt it
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  was unfair to be mocked for his ignorance and then ridiculed for
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  trying to overcome it. I shake his sentiment and
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  recalling Missus Dean's story of his first attempts to shed the
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  darkness of his upbringing, I remarked.
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  But Missus Heathcliff, we all have our beginnings stumbling
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  and faltering at the start. If our teachers had mocked us
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  instead of helping, we'd still be stumbling and faltering.
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  Oh, she replied. I don't want to limit his
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  learning. Still, he has no right to take
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  what's mine and make it absurd with his awful mistakes and
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  mispronunciations. Those books, both prose and
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  poetry, hold a special place in my heart because of their
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  associations, and I can't stand to hear them sullied by his
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  voice. Worse still, he picks my
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  favorite pieces, the ones I cherish most, as if to spite me
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  deliberately, Hareton's chest rose and fell in silent turmoil,
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  grappling with deep humiliation and anger that he struggled to
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  contain. I stood up, hoping to ease his
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  discomfort with a gentlemanly gesture and position myself in
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  the doorway, gazing out at the view.
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  He followed suit, leaving the room, but soon returned with a
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  stack of books in his arms. He tossed them into Catherine's
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  lap, declaring, Take them. I never want to hear, read, or
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  think about them again. I don't want them now, she
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  retorted. I'll associate them with you and
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  despise them. She opened one book, its pages
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  clearly well thumbed, and read a passage in the slow, awkward
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  manner of a novice, then laughed and tossed it aside.
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  And listen. She continued tauntingly, the
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  beginning a verse of an old ballad in the same mocking tone.
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  But his pride could take no more.
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  I heard and didn't entirely disapprove of a swift rebuke to
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  her insolent tongue. The little tormentor had done
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  her best to wound her cousin's sensitive, though unrefined
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  feelings, and a physical retort was the only way he knew to
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  settle the score and counteract her impact.
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  He then gathered the books and threw them into the fire.
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  I could see in his face the torment it caused him to make
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  the sacrifice out of spite. I imagined that as the flames
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  consumed, he was remembering the joy those things had already
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  given him and the triumph and growing pleasure he had expected
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  from them. I also thought I understood what
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  drove him to his secret studies. He had been satisfied with his
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  daily work and simple, earthy pleasures until Catherine came
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  into his life. Her disdain and his desire for
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  her approval first pushed him toward greater ambitions, but
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  instead of shielding him from 1 and roshing him toward the
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  other, his efforts to elevate himself had backfired entirely.
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  Yes, that's all the benefit a brute like you can get from
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  them. Catherine exclaimed, tending to
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  her injured lip and watching the fire with angry eyes.
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  You'd better keep quiet now, he retorted fiercely.
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  His agitation stopped him from saying more.
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  He moved quickly to the door and I stepped aside to let him pass.
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  But before he could cross the threshold, Mr. Heathcliff
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  approached along the path, caught him by the shoulder and
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  asked. What's going on now, my boy?
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  Nothing, nothing, He replied, breaking away to nurse his grief
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  and anger alone. Heathcliff watched him go and
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  sighed. It would be strange if I were to
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  sabotage myself, he muttered, unaware that I stood behind him.
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  But when I search his face for traces of his father, I find
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  more of her every day. How on earth does he resemble
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  her so much? It's almost unbearable to look
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  at him. He lowered his gaze to the
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  ground and walked inside with a brooding air.
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  There was a restless, anxious look on his face that I hadn't
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  noticed before, and he seemed thinner.
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  His daughter-in-law, spotting him through the window, quickly
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  retreated to the kitchen, leaving me alone.
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  I'm glad to see you outside again, Mr. Lockwood, he said in
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  response to my greeting. Partly for selfish reasons, I
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  doubt I could easily replace your company in this desolate
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  place. I've often wondered what brought
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  you here. An idle whim, I suppose, Sir, I
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  replied. Or perhaps it's an idle whim
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  that's about to take me away. I'm heading to London next week
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  and I must inform you that I have no intention of staying at
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  Thrushcross Grange beyond the 12 months I agreed to rent it.
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  I don't think I'll live there anymore.
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  Oh really? You've grown weary of being
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  exiled from the world, have you? He remarked.
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  But if you're here to try and avoid paying for a place you
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  won't occupy, your trip is in vain.
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  I never waver in collecting what's owed to me.
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  I'm not here to plead for anything of the sort.
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  I retorted, feeling quite irritated.
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  If you'd like, we can settle up now, I offered, pulling out my
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  notebook. No need.
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  He replied coolly. You'll leave enough behind to
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  cover your debts if you don't come back.
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  I'm not in a rush. Sit down and have dinner with
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  us. A guest who won't be returning
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  is usually welcome. Catherine, bring in the things.
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  Where are you? Catherine returned, carrying a
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  tray of cutlery. You can have your dinner with
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  Joseph. Heathcliff muttered to her.
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  And stay in the kitchen until he's gone.
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  She followed his instructions precisely, perhaps because she
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  felt no urge to do otherwise, living among such rough and
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  misanthropic company. She likely couldn't recognize
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  better company when she encountered it.
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  With Mr. Heathcliff grim and brooding on one side and Hareton
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  utterly silent on the other. My meal was rather bleak, and I
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  took my leave early. I had hoped to slip out the back
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  to catch a last glimpse of Catherine and irritate old
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  Joseph, but Hareton was told to bring my horse around and my
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  host personally saw me to the door, thwarting my plan.
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  How dreary life becomes in that house.
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  I'm used riding down the road. Imagine the enchantment of a
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  reality more romantic than any fairy tale for Missus Linton
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  Heathcliffy. Had she and I formed a bond as
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  her well meaning nurse had hoped, and ventured together
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  into the vibrant life of the city?